Emily: Sex and Sensibility (4 page)

“And in all that time have you ever known me to do anything illegal?” A tiny silence. Marco swung toward Charles. “Have you?”

“Well, I have seen you drive, sir. The speed limit—”

“Have you ever seen me mug an old lady?”

“No, sir. Certainly not.”

“Have I kidnapped anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Are there bodies buried on the terrace around my condo, Charles, or at any of the other homes I own?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Am I a thief? A burglar? A swindler? Do I cheat retirees out of their hard-earned savings?”

“No!”

Marco nodded. “And where were we tonight, Charles?”

“At the Hotel Deville, sir.”

“For what reason?”

“You attended the mayor’s annual charity dinner.”

“Dinner, and raffle,” Marco said grimly.

“Of course.”

“And I was there because?”

“Because you were invited.”

“Because?”

“Because you were one of the guests of honor.”

“Because?”

“Because you are the founder of the Step-Up Foundation for Boys.”

“Does that mean I am a good guy, Charles?”

“It means you believe in charity, sir.”

Despite everything, Marco laughed. “Nice phrasing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And what are we doing now?” Marco said his smile fading.

“We are trying to be of assistance to a lady who appears to be in some difficulty.”

“And getting soaked to the skin in the process.”

“Indeed.”

“To the best of your knowledge, Charles, do villains ever permit themselves to be rained on?”

“Not to my knowledge, no, sir.”

Marco looked at the woman. The look on her face had changed. That chin was still lifted at a defiant angle, but unless he was imagining things, there was the faintest upward curve to her lips.

“Thank you, Charles. You may return to the car.”

His driver walked briskly to the Mercedes and got behind the wheel. Calling Charles his “driver” didn’t come close to being accurate. He was also the person who ran Marco’s household whether that household was in New York, Rome, London or Brazil.

Right now, he was Marco’s final hope.

He had run out of ideas. Either the woman would let him take her away from the rain, the cold and, most of all, the inherent dangers to be found on city streets in the middle of the night, or his attempts at being a Boy Scout were over.

“Last chance,” he said quietly. “I’m almost as wet as you are, but contrary to what seems to be your plan for the evening, I don’t intend to get any wetter. Charles and I will take you to your door. Or you can use my phone. Call someone to come for you. Or I will do as you have asked and go away. The choice is yours.”

For what seemed forever, she didn’t say anything. Then she cleared her throat.

“D-do—do you ha-have a name?”

“Forgive me.” Marco closed the last few inches between them. He held out his hand. “I am Marco. Marco Santini.”

Emily stared at the stranger’s outstretched hand. It was a strong-looking hand, the nails clean and well-cared for. Her brothers had hands like this. Masculine, powerful, just a little work-hardened.

“And you are?”

She drew a long, deep breath.

“Em—Emily.”

“Well, Emily, now that we have formally introduced ourselves, may I see you home?”

He smiled.

She wished he hadn’t, because he had a devastating smile and a smile didn’t mean a thing. For all she knew, Jack the Ripper had had a great smile and what was it people said about Ted Bundy? That he’d been good-looking. Handsome.

Certainly not more handsome than this.

He reached back, his eyes never leaving hers, and opened the rear door. Then he bent down and picked up her shoes.

“Please. Get in.”

She hesitated but not for long.

Oh
, she thought as she stepped inside the Mercedes,
oh, lovely
.

The interior was warm, the immediate relief from the rain glorious. She tried to show some decorum but that was difficult when you were dripping your way across a leather seat toward a woman who looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue.

Impeccable hairdo. Impeccable makeup. Impeccable fuchsia silk jacket over impeccable pale pink gown. Stilettos heels, the kind that would never be so unsophisticated as to fall apart in the rain.

“Be careful,” the woman snapped, shrinking away from her. “You’re dripping all over everything!”

“Sorry! I di-d-didn’t mean t-to—”

“This is ridiculous. You should be sitting up front.”

Marco Santini’s hard, warm thigh pressed against Emily’s. The car door slammed shut. She looked at him.

“She might b-b-be right. I mean, I really am awfully w-w-wet.”

“You’re fine where you are. Charles? Turn up the heat, please.” Marco leaned forward and pressed a button. The door to a discretely-designed compartment clicked open; he reached in and took out a bottle of amber-colored liquid and poured a dollop into a crystal glass. “Brandy,” he said, holding it out to her. “Take a sip.”

Emily eyed it warily. “Thank you, b-b-but—”

Marco rolled his eyes, brought the glass to his lips and drank. “See? Absolutely safe. Go on. It will help.”

Their hands brushed as she took the flask from him, lifted it to her mouth and took a drink. Liquid fire swept from the top of her head to her toes.

“Better?”

She nodded.

“This will help even more,” he said, withdrawing a small blanket from a drawer under the same compartment.

“I d-d-don’t think I’d better. I’ll get it all weh-weh-wet.”

“Give it to me, then,” Jessalyn said coldly. “I’ll use it to keep myself from getting all weh-weh-wet.”

Marco flashed her a look, shook the blanket open and draped it over Emily.

“Now,” he said briskly, “where are we taking you?”

Emily looked at him. He was almost as wet as she was. Drops of rain glittered in his dark hair and on his thick, spiky lashes. His shirt clung to his wide shoulders and broad chest, betraying the shadow of hard, delineated muscle.

She thought about offering to share the blanket with him.

A rush of heat, similar to what she’d experienced when she’d swallowed the mouthful of brandy, went through her.

“Good.”

She blinked, looked up, met his gaze.

“You have some color in your face. Now, tell me where you live.”

“The E-E-East Village.”

“Where in the East Village?”

She hesitated. Marco Santini had, thus far, not given her any reason to doubt that his intentions were honorable, but a false address was only wise. She thought fast, went down a mental list of buildings and streets not too far from hers and came up with one.

“Twenty-two Pascal Street.”

Did his eyes narrow just a little? No. Why would they?

“Charles? We want twenty-two Pascal. You do know how to get there, don’t you?”

The driver coughed. “Absolutely, Mr. Santini.”

“Excellent. We’ll take Ms. Simmons home first.”

The Impeccable Blonde raised impeccably groomed eyebrows. “Marco, really…”

“Ms. Simmons first,” Marco repeated. “And then twenty-two Pascal. Do you have that, Charles?”

“I do, sir,” the driver said, and the big Mercedes moved into the night.

******

The Impeccable Blonde lived in an Impeccable Building on Park Avenue.

Charles pulled to the curb, stepped out, opened her door. Marco got out, too; The Impeccable Blonde stepped onto the curb, waited until he joined her and then looped her arm through his. She looked over her shoulder, flashed Emily an icy smile. Then she leaned into Marco as if he were a tree and she were a vine.

“I’ll be only a minute,” Marco said, but after that little display, Emily doubted it.

Not that what he did was any of her business.

Besides, there was a subway station only a couple of blocks away and the rain had tapered to a drizzle.

She looked at her shoes, lying on the floor. At the blanket, wrapped around her. She was still wearing her rescuer’s jacket but the blanket would be enough…

“Mr. Santini would never forgive me, Miss.”

She blinked, looked up, met Charles’s steady eyes in the mirror.

“Would you really try to stop me?”

“I’m trying to do that right now, Miss, by talking you out of leaving.”

“Just that?”

Charles smiled. “Mr. Santini is a man of honor. He wouldn’t approve of anything more. You don’t have to worry about—”

The door opened. “What doesn’t she have to worry about?” Marco said as he got into the car.

“About getting to twenty-two Pascal,” Charles said smoothly. “I know precisely where it is.”

“Indeed. So do I. And we both know that it isn’t where the lady lives.”

Emily stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it is a landmark building that has just undergone extensive renovations. It took the builder five hard years to gain the city’s approval.”

She sank back in the seat. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Now,
prego
, where do you really live?

She told him and ten minutes later they reached her slightly decrepit building. Emily shrugged off the blanket and stepped onto the sidewalk before either Marco or his driver had moved.

“Well,” she said briskly, “thank you for—”

Marco held out her shoes. “You forgot these.”

“Oh.” She reached for them but he shook his head as he got out of the car.

“I’ll carry them for you.”

“No. I mean, you don’t have to.”

“A gentleman always escorts a lady to her door.”

Was he making fun of her? She couldn’t tell, not from his voice or from his expression.

“Really, that isn’t—”

“And I can collect my jacket at the same time.”

“Your jacket. Sorry. I forgot—”

“No, keep it on. You can give it to me after we get to your apartment.”

“Really, Mr. Santini—”

“It’s Marco.” His hand closed on her elbow. “What floor?”

“The fourth. And it’s a walk-up.”

“I expected nothing less,” he said dryly. “Keys.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your keys I am assuming the front door is locked.”

It was, and how could she balk now after he’d driven her all the way home? Emily dug the keys from her purse and handed them over.

The stairs were narrow; they climbed them single file, he in back of her. At the fourth floor landing, she swung toward him.

“Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome. Which door is yours?”

“Mr. Santini—”

“Marco.”

“Marco. It isn’t necessary to—” She took a breath. “That one.” He moved past her, unlocked her door, then took her hand, pressed the keys into it and folded her fingers over them. She looked at her hand, then at him. A wash of pale pink rose in her face. “I’m not going to ask you in.”

He laughed softly. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Good. Fine. Because—”

“Because you think, now he will demand recompense.”

Emily blushed. “No. I just—”

“Yet, you must admit, you do owe me something.”

She stiffened.

“It was very kind of you to bring me home but if you think that entitles you to—”

“It does,” he said solemnly.

“No. It does not. I am not about to—”

“What were you doing on that street corner?”

“Huh?”

“That is the cost of my assistance. I want to know what happened to you tonight.”

Emily stared at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well…” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was fired.”

“You were fired?”

“Uh-huh.”

“From what?”

She could hear the bewilderment in his voice, see it in his eyes. Who could blame him? It sounded unreal; if their positions had been reversed, she wouldn’t have believed the story either.

“From a bar. The Tune-In Café. It’s a couple of blocks from where you found me.”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you saying that you are a bartender?”

“A bar…?” She laughed. It was, he noticed a very nice laugh. It went with her eyes—light blue, he could see now, in the faint glow of light in the hall. “No,” she said, “I play piano.”

“Ah. A pianist.”

“Pianists play at Carnegie Hall. Piano players play at places like the Tune-In.”

She was smiling. He smiled back. His tigress had a nice way about her. She was very pretty, too. Not the type of pretty he generally saw. Her face was bare of makeup. Her hair was the color of gold. The heat of the car had dried it and it fell down her back in a drift of soft curls.

He wanted to reach out and touch one of them. See if it would wrap around his finger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a woman’s hair that had not been sprayed, shellacked or cemented into place.

“And what did you do to deserve being fired?”

She hesitated. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He folded his arms over his chest. It was either that or succumb to the desire to play with one of those curls, and he suspected that would not be a good idea.

“Try me.”

Her voice took on a defensive edge. “A guy asked me to play a tune. I refused.”

“Was it something you didn’t know?”

“I knew it, all right. It was that old Sinatra thing. “New York, New York
.
”

“But aren’t requests part of a pianist’s—
scusi
—a piano player’s job?”

Why had she let the conversation get this far? Talking about what she’d done only emphasized the stupidity of it.

“Yes.”

“So, your boss told you to get out because you wouldn’t play the tune?”

“Not exactly. See, the guy who’d asked me to play that song was drunk.”

His face seemed to darken. “Did he do something to you? Did he touch you?”

“No,” she said quickly, “nothing like that. He was just drunk. And he had an open bottle of beer in his hand. He pointed it at me.”

“And?”

“And…” She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “It’s too embarrassing.”

Marco put his finger lightly under her chin, lifted her face until their eyes met.
“Tell me.”

“The beer spilled. Over me.”